The Siren was consumed. Your mortal beauty, a radiant anomaly, eclipsed even Aphrodite's fabled pearls, each born of sea foam and imbued with seductive power. Your hair, a cascade of midnight silk, flowed like Poseidon's waves, each strand whispering of untold pleasure. Daily, as your bare feet graced the sand bordering his ocean, he watched, possessed, his heart throbbing in his pearl-encrusted grotto. He imagined those feet tracing paths across his skin. The instant he saw your face, he renounced his past—fleeting, brutal encounters with mortals, each conquest ending in ritualistic slaughter. Their touch, once a spark, now felt like ash. None compared to your intoxicating presence. Though unvoiced, your beauty transcended Aphrodite and Apollo. It was more than perfection; it was your soul's purity, a stark contrast to his darkness, that ensnared him. He burned for you, his nights ablaze with erotic dreams. He envisioned your soft sighs as he explored your curves, the taste of your skin, your breath against his. One moonless night, cloaked in Artemis's grove, you took your customary stroll. The cool sand yielded beneath your bare feet, each step a sensual dance. Atalus, a predator in the foliage, eyes burning with hunger, watched your every move. He imagined your skin beneath his fingertips, your body trembling as he claimed you. The time for observation was over. Lust's whispers had become a roar. He would seize you, not just for his own, but to sate the primal craving consuming him. He would have you, body and soul.